


I wanna be that guy

by maybeillride



Series: Songfics [1]
Category: Free!
Genre: Aggressively-impressionistic not-handjobs, Anal Sex, Clubbing, Dangerous fluff-levels, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Furniture abuse, Guyliner, It's a thing - I swear!, Love Hotels, M/M, Mirror Sex, Non-Consensual Tickling, Possessive Behavior, Self-Discovery, Seriously - wear a respirator, Shameless Harugazing, Tokyo (City), Willfully ambiguous timelines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-20 02:42:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2412002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybeillride/pseuds/maybeillride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey,” Haru said, eyes – that were inexplicably at least eleven times more cobalt than usual, ringed in layers of smoke – flicking up to him and fixing with his in the mirror, then unmistakably traveling down.</p><p>‘What???’ And Makoto was simply unable to dredge up a word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You'll wear my make-up well

**Author's Note:**

> So I've become convinced (by silly-awesome Free! crack vids on YT) that Haru's personal theme song soundtrack is probably mostly Lady Gaga, even if his actual tastes run trance or thrash-metal or ???. They both just refreshingly don't give a damn. I've further realized her song "G.U.Y." was begging to be a MakoHaru theme as it's oozing with gender-fluid obsessive topping-from-the-bottom swooningly-romantic-yet-crazy-hot feels. So being totally incompetent at fan video editing, I decided to use 3 verses of the song to inspire a 3-chap MakoHaru thing where Tokyo helps Haru realize what he wants (thanks, Tokyo!). 
> 
> I may have also just wanted to get Haru into (and out of) a particular outfit. I am such a girl ;P
> 
> Cue said tune up during the club scene for a fuller sensory experience, if so desired! ;)

******

_I'm gonna say the word_

_And own you_

_You'll be my (G.I.R.L.)_

_Guy, I'm romancin' loves to hold you_

_Know, you'll wear my make-up well_

*

It was, oddly enough, Haru’s idea to go to the club that Saturday night. Maybe it was the unusual (even for their merciless new-life schedules) lack of contact the previous three weeks that inserted an itch under his skin to demand something different. Out of their comfort zone. They hadn’t ventured into the Tokyo club scene since the move; Makoto had gamely joined classmates at bars a handful of times, but those had been to friendly, “neighborhood” pubs, which this place most certainly was not. Haru, to Makoto’s knowledge, hadn’t been out once so far.

Yet it was Haru’s idea, sending Mako a cryptic _‘Go out tonight? How do you feel about dancing?’_ as the latter discreetly yawned through a study-group session in the student union.

He gaped at the glowing screen for a beat, then snorted aloud as he swiped back _‘hmm Haru, I feel it’s a perfectly legit art form, uh, most of the time XD Why, what’s up?’_

The reply almost seemed to be already cued-up on the other end. _‘just be at my place at 8. Look good’_

“Hmm…that was fast, Haru,” he murmured at his phone, unaware of the thoughtful look on his face, the same he would get settling in with a Sudoku (one of his guilty pleasures). _‘uh, when do I NOT? See ya then :D’_ he shot back before his seatmate Emiko-san managed to throw a Pocki with sniper precision at his forehead to rein him back to the group.

*

Mako was deeply, profoundly, _glaringly_ uncomfortable. And the worst of it was, he couldn’t lay his finger exactly on why. Each time he tried – in Haru’s Spartan studio apartment as Haru prepped him to go, in the train as they silently shuttled to a part of downtown jarringly unfamiliar, as Haru led him further down a rabbit hole of twists and turns to get to the door of their destination – understanding lazily, languidly eluded him and just left him pissed off. And uneasy.

Because Haru NEVER gave two shits about how he looked, or about how he was perceived by others, or hell, about _others_ , generally, outside their core friends back in Iwatobi. He had hardly mentioned any names of people he had met so far to Makoto, save some guys he was swimming and so basically living in the pool with lately. Even those seemed like cool, transactional, functional relationships, sprinkled with the uniquely Haru wit Mako privately treasured, and a heavy dose of annoyance. Sparked with the wonderful new enthusiasm he seemed to have found, yes, but no flirtiness to speak of.

Yet as they awkwardly waited in a queue of intimidatingly trash-goth-chic guys to shuffle into the club, both pretending not to shiver in the evening chill (as Haru had shot down any outerwear, another worm to add to Mako’s nameless unease), Makoto’s eyes drifted compulsively to his petite friend. He told himself he wasn’t gawking, he _wasn’t,_ who they hell gawks at their friends out for some innocent fun? But – BUT – Haru looked like what he was out for was anything but innocent.

Black, black, black, that’s all he was, head to toe, when Mako could hardly remember any black in his closet (…other than THAT hoodie he wore when he apologized at Nationals, an item of clothing Makoto would always associate with pure happiness). Tonight was jeans so skinny they sorta meltedonto him, and a sweater so light and insubstantial and transparent it was practically the _suggestion_ of a sweater, whispering down from a wide, frayed neckline that bared his fragile collarbones and down over his toned arms and torso like dark seafoam. Haru’s new grooming, too, for lack of a better word, was just as startling – he had actually had a haircut (different for the first time in Makoto’s entire memory of him), an edgy something that left the back and sides of his finely-shaped skull somehow too naked and vulnerable, and left the trademark Haru fringe sweeping out like a sensuous counterpoint to all that bareness behind.

And then there was the makeup.

Makoto had hurried down Haru’s apartment complex hallway with a strange stage-fright feeling…almost like waiting in the wings for his turn to wow the Iwatobi H.S. assembly with his incredible simulated backstroke. The unfamiliar mystery of that text – Haru? _Dancing? –_ was part of the butterflies. His own carefully-chosen outfit was the other.

He’d had no earthly idea what to wear; he told himself the task was so damn maddening because of Haru’s obnoxious lack of detail on dress code. Anyone would’ve been flustered. Standing before the full-length mirror he’d never had occasion to use on the back of his bathroom door, he had stared at himself with a strangely out-of-body sensation, at the deep forest green button down that was the one shirt with the power to make him smile at himself without realizing it, the wide leather belt and his favorite pair of broken-in black jeans, the soft, worn black dress loafers that would be kind to his feet.

‘ _Would this look good to Haru?’_ was the last thought he remembered before time shifted in a blur of hurrying and train and then he was confronted with this new, scary, too…something, too…too, _makeup-wearing Haru._

He had found Haru in the bathroom – only instead of the bath he was so sure he was about to interrupt, here was the punky new back of Haru’s head as he leaned deep into the mirror over the sink, totally engrossed in an activity Makoto had seen his mom do plenty of times when she and his dad would go out. With suspicious ease, he finished gingerly sweeping beneath one eye with a charcoal-y liner pencil to match the other. Makoto was left utterly, stupidly dumbstruck and couldn’t decide if Haru’s apparently mad guyliner skills or the way one hip was cocked practically in his face in his deep lean was more to blame.

“Hey,” Haru said, eyes – that were inexplicably at least eleven times more cobalt than usual, ringed in layers of smoke – flicking up to him and fixing with his in the mirror, then unmistakably _traveling down._

 _‘What???’_ And Makoto was simply unable to dredge up a word.

“Hmm, guess you read my text after all,” he said through the subtlest of smirks, turning and stepping silently over to where Makoto still stood in the doorway gaping (or at least feeling like it). He held the slim makeup stick in one hand.

“Hold still and don’t worry, I have pretty steady hands. But you have to close or open when I say,” he murmured almost absentmindedly, already reaching up, and Mako froze completely and solidly as time slowed to an agonizing crawl and slipped maddeningly through his fingers. And Haru was right, he was good – Makoto was done before he hardly realized it was happening, Haru confusingly having moved on to adjusting his shirt: rolling the sleeves past his taut forearms, nudging too many buttons undone down his chest. Finally he had finished his arrangements and his high-beam eyes had flicked back up at Makoto under his black waterfall of hair, and Mako didn’t think he had ever felt such an uncanny, skydiving sensation, not in his gut but in the back of his knees, of all places.

*

The guys. Were. _Everywhere._ Oh, that wasn’t a surprise on its own. Haru had brought him to what certainly appeared to be a gay bar, after all, and Makoto had essentially surrendered his face (and neck, and chest) to the permanent flush he was sure was there at the lovely and well-groomed sights all around them. He was thankful he was at least able to hide a bit in the subterranean quality of the place’s “mood lighting,” willfully unaware of any interest possibly sent his way. The punishing techno music, sounding like it was made by junkyard dogs that had somehow learned to beat scrap metal with 2 X 4s, further disoriented him and yet compelled his eyes to dart around at the gyrating forms before them.

And it was soon – like sharks with blood in the water – that the dance floor and environs subtly turned to the black-clad new arrival as he slunk out and began to move. He had tried to get Makoto to join him from the edge of the floor, tugging both hands with shocking insistence.

_‘Makoto. Come on. Dancing is fun.’_

Makoto read what was in Haru’s laser-beam eyes with spoken-word clarity, and still was frozen in a state of near-shock he couldn’t name.

_‘Can’t. This is too weird, don’t YOU think this is weird, Haru??’_

Haru blinked, so slowly and softly, like cats do to members of their cat-tribe, and for a second looked both sad and sly…but Mako could’ve been imagining. He shrugged, and floated out onto the floor, as the music morphed into a strutting, dangerous, synthy beat that was dark and dirty and…. _hot._

And somehow, through some brilliant trick like watching a magician, or a really great jump-shot, or….or Haru’s no-wasted-space freestyle, Haru _became_ the song. He oozed through space, drawing shapes with his supple arms, diving into dips and rolls, stalking each other dancer and sharing a moment in some kind of almost formal and stylized passing, like they were all part of a giant stage production he was starring in and hadn’t been given the memo.

Makoto was forcefully reminded of all the nature shows he and Haru watched, that Haru insisted on but Makoto secretly enjoyed as they relaxed him, where it was inevitable that at some point a female something was trailed and hounded by many male somethings. The resemblance to the scene Haru was presenting him with was crazy – all it needed was the soothing baritone voiceover. And…for Haru to be a girl, too, he thought with strange disquiet.

One by one, occasionally in pairs, the exotic and intense fellow dancers seemed compelled to enter his orbit, drifting or bobbing or weaving up to him, dipping a head in to whisper something in his ear ( _‘what? Are they giving him their numbers….??’),_ laying a hand on the small of his back. One man, tall like him, fair with clearly dyed hair that reminds him jarringly of Kisumi though this man’s is the lightest of blues, sidles behind for what feels like a long time and settles both hands on Haru’s narrow hips, swaying and circling. Not-Kisumi’s lips descend, Haru’s head rocks back to the beat, and a too-pink tongue teases Haru’s ear.

Makoto is moving.

Haru is beneath and snugged up against the front of him (like it seems they’ve done forever, and never done before) with zero space between before he understands how or why. His left hand reflexively clutches the ridiculous excuse for a sweater, pulling Haru to him in a Rin-like move. His right splays against the broad chest of not-Kisumi and lightly shoves, as he gives a blank, narrow look into the surprised eyes of the other. Not-Kisumi stumbles back with an alarmed yelp, and Mako flips his eyes back…

To meet the glow of Haru’s weirdly dancing eyes, and fierce hard smile that is parting and diving up...

And colliding firmly with his own shocked gape, two small hands grabbing his head and pulling it down, taking what they want. The song inexplicably fades into a low throb and Haru is shifting softly and his whole vision is filled with Haru. He can’t close his eyes.

Their lips part with a weird finality and Makoto isn’t even embarrassed when he gasps, and then not-Kisumi is back, grabbing and yanking Haru’s shoulder away, snarling “Fucking tease” with what seems like way-too much venom –

Not-Kisumi sprawls on the floor, all graceless limbs and yelling “Hey!!” as Makoto grabs Haru’s hand and marches him out like a parent ejecting a tantruming kid from a grocery store.


	2. Let me be the girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He also knows that just one thing here in Tokyo is familiar. Completely, totally familiar. Warm-kotatsu familiar, favorite-shirt familiar, lounging on the same bed familiar. A face so familiar he can trace every line in his mind, and does, on sleepy post-swimming afternoons as he leans eyes-closed against the thrumming train window.
> 
> And as exhausting and weirdly exhilarating as all the newness has been, the biggest piece of himself that Tokyo has uncovered is the part that realizes he wants. And he wants this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Acknowledgement again to Lady Gaga for my blatant theft of her great "G.U.Y." for lyrics and titles.

_I'm gonna wear the tie, want the power to leave you_

_I_ _'m aiming for full control of this love (of this love)_

_T_ _ouch me, touch me, don't be sweet_

_Love me, love me, please retweet_

_Let me be the girl under you that makes you cry_

 

Tokyo has changed him.

It’s the biggest cliché in the book… cliché as hell. “Boy Goes to Big City, Loses Self, Yet Finds Self Too,” the kind of ridiculous paradox/melodramatic device in the shojo manga Rin is so fond of (and so embarrassed by).

He doesn’t care. It has felt completely natural to uncover unknown bits of himself here _because_ he’s lost himself. He’s been lost in the punishing beat of his swimming days he thought he’d hate but has found weirdly therapeutic, like a forced reconciliation with his water. He’s been lost in the disorientating and maybe inevitable realization that no, small-town high-school classes are NOT, in fact, a good idea of the kind of things a Tokyo university expects you to know and do. He’s been lost in the total bare foreignness of his space-capsule apartment, the new paths he’s had to impress in his memory from door to station to grocery to school. He’s been lost in the faces, faces, faces, oh my god so many _bodies_ everywhere, he still has a little mental block about the need for the guys in the subway who get paid to shove you so everyone can fit on the trains.

It just seems so natural and free to practice here: fastening his eyes on someone else’s without looking away, answering someone when they ask him a question or want his opinion or are small-talking with him, allowing even a little bit of his inner smart-ass monologue out instead of hoarding it to himself, indulging in completely spontaneous let-his-eyes/ears/nose lead him somewhere during random free moments, smiling tentatively back at the smiles he seems to find directed his way almost everywhere lately, relenting and helping a few of his teammates with the particulars of his arm recovery and other micro-level details that they’re totally enamored with. He can practice in this city because he feels almost totally anonymous. _Nanase Haruka_ is meaningless here, with none of Iwatobi’s connotations. Weird, grim, solitary, selfish, mackerel-obsessed, water-obsessed, emotionally-stunted? He isn’t sure where he learned those (or even made them up himself) and thinks of them dispassionately like they’re vocabulary words in English class. _Nanase Haruka_ , freestyle swimmer? That’s about all he brought with him for sure. He’s working on the rest.

He can’t not think of Rei, every time he freely indulges in such totally un-Haru behavior.

He knows the loss of his beach ( _their_ beach), his breathless view from the very top of the stairs ( _their_ view), his sakura ( _their_ sakura), his _friends_ ( _their friends_ ) _his_ _his his_ ( _theirs theirs theirs_ ), wounds him in ways he doesn’t want to think about. He knows in some weird way that is his sacrifice for these new parts of himself that Tokyo has pulled out. He isn’t sure if the trade is an even one, but he knows it’s too late and what’s been done can’t get undone.

He also knows that just one thing here in Tokyo is familiar. Completely, totally familiar. Warm-kotatsu familiar, favorite-shirt familiar, lounging on the same bed familiar. A face so familiar he can trace every line in his mind, and does, on sleepy post-swimming afternoons as he leans eyes-closed against the thrumming train window.

And as exhausting and weirdly exhilarating as all the newness has been, the biggest piece of himself that Tokyo has uncovered is the part that realizes he _wants._ And he wants this.

*

It doesn’t take much, funny enough, to take the lead once they’re out of the club.

Makoto was all initiative inside – no, more accurately, once he saw those other guys dancing with him. Especially that last guy, who he hadn’t got a look at but he knew was pretty much all over him. Haru was a little shocked at how Mako had somehow found his inner/outer caveman; he hadn’t planned on that, hadn’t planned anything beyond getting he and Mako out and together and looking as good as two non-fashion-types like themselves could pull off and bathing in the music…and dancing, dancing. Haru’s senses had never betrayed him and he knew, _knew_ that sharing that with Makoto would show him even the smallest sliver of what they could have together. He felt the weight of his eyes like a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder no matter where he had been on the dance floor, even when he turned his back to Mako he felt it. And his arrival to rescue him from Mr. Handsy was startling, he was in front of him so suddenly like a magic trick, all solidness and depth and gravitas and more than three-dimensions, somehow. The rest of the swirling pulsing flashing room basically dropped off Haru’s radar as he – _Makoto?_ – shoved that guy away and Haru just grabbed him. He hated himself a little bit for completing such a goddamn shojo cliché all the hell over again but he spared the tiniest energy for thought, and the rest for just grabbing the shit out of his best and most beloved person and kissed kissed kissed him.

Well, he activated full caveman mode at that point, pushing Handsy to the _floor –_ maybe Haru wasn’t the only one changed by Tokyo – and whisking them out of there.

Haru is dumbstruck for a few minutes back out on the sidewalk, as they shiver again in the sudden temperature change. Maybe it’s simply whiplash – he surely has sprung some things on his friend tonight, he put eyeliner on him for god’s sake (‘ _oh yes yes and would you just look at the THINGS it does to his eyes’_ ) and dragged him to a fucking gay bar, way to break a friend in to the new agenda, any action has an equal and opposite reaction… But he’s surprised. And disoriented. And just a little disquieted. Would Iwatobi Makoto shove a guy, twice, down to the ground? Would he just make a power play like that? Turn their joined hands, such a familiar feeling Haru could trace those lines in his mind too, into a vehicle to propel Haru somewhere totally unknown?

Did Haru like it?

He feels himself reverting to Iwatobi Haru as they stand awkwardly beside each other (hands still joined), as he peeks through his fringe, seeking Mako’s eyes like he’s done a thousand times before. No luck. Makoto has apparently lost whatever assertive spirit possessed him. He’s staring at the ground, at Haru’s black Onitsuka Tigers like he’s memorizing them, cheeks shading toward fuchsia, a shade that is simply too beautiful against those lined jade eyes. It’s not right for a single person to be THAT…everything.

“So…I’m-I’m not going to apologize,” Makoto suddenly says, and Haru jumps in surprise. He isn’t sure but it may be the first real sentence he’s said since they left his apartment. What has Tokyo done to Mako’s motormouth?

“…for… for what?” Haru asks him quietly when Makoto doesn’t elaborate. He slides in to face him and takes his other hand, casually. Mako’s eyes stay down.

“Mmmm….for acting like a jerk. I don’t know if I’ve ever done anything like that in my life, Haru…can you believe that? That was some total possessive-boyfriend stuff.” He laughs cynically, some kind of dark twist on his usual waterfall of a chuckle – then suddenly realizes what he’s just said, eyes flying up to Haru’s in shock and mouth dropping open so wide Haru starts laughing. Loud. Louder than he thinks he ever has, actually, and he presses his own flushed face breathlessly into Makoto’s solid chest, against the open V of his shirt, as he rides out the wave of the absurdity of it all. He squeezes Mako’s hands tight and after a bit feels both hands squeeze back firmly.

“Makoto. Let’s go somewhere.”

He looks up and sees Makoto gazing down with a look he isn’t sure about. It’s a strangely calm look, and a sort of wondering look, and definitely an assessing look…he believed he’d seen all Makoto’s looks, but this is new to him.

“Where is Haru-chan wanting to take me?” Was that just the littlest smirk at him?

“So nosy.” The ‘drop the –chan’ has died away months ago; Haru secretly savors the nostalgia of the pet name. “What if I told you it’s none of your damn business and that you owe me for wrecking our dancing date so I get to collect?”

Now Makoto is _definitely_ laughing at him. “’Dancing date’, huh? Oh my _god,_ Haru, it all becomes clear. Your…your big seduction plan! Oh my god, you – you are _so_ _good!_ ” His smoke-rimmed eyes dance.

His turn to shove, grabbing their joined hands up to Mako’s broad shoulders and pushing off, sending him stumbling back as he keeps giggling to himself like he can’t believe what’s happening. Haru scowls so hard he can feel months of forward progress here gone in a moment. He reaches for these new instincts, fiercely grabbing one of Mako’s hands again.

“I don’t have any plans….The only thing I wanted to do tonight was see you. It’s been so hard not seeing you lately.” His voice is low and he tries not to be embarrassed for the obvious emotion in it.

He watches Makoto’s Adam’s apple rise and fall. His big hand settles so gently on the sensitive curve of Haru’s back, the delicate sweater so featherlight the hand feels like it’s baking his skin in the chill of the night.

“…..I’ve….ah, Haru, I’ve missed you too….”

*

“Somewhere” ends up being an anonymous little hotel near the club.

They find it without having to lay a finger on a smartphone, tucked helpfully though still discreetly in easy wandering distance. Haru knows this is no coincidence, that this place is offering the next logical service for guys who go clubbing, perfect meeting of supply and demand in a place where people still don’t typically bring this stuff home. He feels extremely out-of-body as he and Makoto stand at the little reception counter, surprisingly close – something told him Mako would’ve distanced himself, maybe even pretended not to know him, but there could’ve been no doubt to anyone that they had come in together and what they were there for. Haru lays down his Visa for the room, the price not registering at all, perking up as the pierced younger guy runs through a bored little spiel about toys and movies available in the room for an additional charge. Lube and condoms are free, they learn. Apparently safe-sex pays.

Haru recalls nothing of the walk to the elevator, the short ride, the walk down the hall, finding their room. He hopes he won’t have to leave the room for anything as he has no fucking clue what their room number is and would just get himself hopelessly lost in the anonymous corridors.

Then the door closes and a little of their magic returns: They’re in a weird Tokyo love hotel room and Haru is only vaguely sure of his next moves, and yet they could be in his room, window blown wide open on a Saturday night in June with the salty breeze pushing in, playing some stupid mindless card game on his bed, knees brushing, laughing themselves stupid. It’s their magic, it’s Makoto, it’s Haru’s one familiar thing, and he knows again what he _wants_.

He firmly and yet still lightly pushes Mako – it’s becoming a thing for them, he thinks sarcastically – where his friend was just standing, bemused, gazing at him seemingly at a loss. Makoto goes down on the single bed with a surprised grunt, pulling Haru down with him reflexively. Haru lands next to him with one arm splayed out over that chest, twisting his head up breathlessly even though this was his genius move. _‘Sooo seductive there, Haru-chan…’_

Yet the eyes – jade, emerald, grass, moss, evergreen, ahhh he calls himself an artist and he’s stuck in still more stupid inadequate clichés, ringed in smoke – squint down at him like he’s Mako’s favorite cat, like he is something as loveable and uncomplicated and pleasurable to look at as that. He crawls up Makoto’s chest, centering himself as he travels, using Mako as a sort of giant wonderful mattress once their shoulders align. His arms decide to curl up and hide between their bodies in the V of Makoto’s shirt, where he tentatively stretches his hands out on his friend’s upper pectorals, so much softer than he would have guessed with his eyes, as hot as his hand had been outside the club. Mako is practically feverish. Makoto’s hands haven’t strayed, knotting together at the small of his back again in a firm cluster, under his sweater this time. And Mako’s powerful hips, thighs, calves have totally surrendered to their position, relaxing completely beneath him tendon by ligament until he’s found himself softly nestled between those beautiful legs, their jeans whispering faintly against each other in the near-silence of the room as he settles more deeply in. His thighs are greeted by the unmistakable press of his friend’s growing erection, and the feeling is surprising and utterly validating: Makoto likes him, too. Like a dog with a wagging tail there is no lying about this. Haru feels it’s only fair; his is pressed somewhere around Mako’s belly button and there’s no hiding it. They just breathe together like that for some unknown time, synchronizing their inhales and exhales like they’re two freestylers lazily cooling down in adjacent lanes.  

It’s quite possibly the best feeling his body has ever encountered. Swimming can’t compare. The water’s still his element, he is in no doubt of that, but being there is unfinished, untethered, unfixed. This is the sensory opposite experience. On Makoto’s body, feeling the lines he knows so well with his eyes with each corresponding line on his body, he’s fixed like a butterfly by a pin. He’s pulled down like each limb is being gently but firmly drawn down by strings. He is bigger, more important, more finalized than he ever has been.

On a nameless impulse he looks down on Makoto’s lovely, familiar face, on the absolute picture of dazed and wondering contentment it presents him with – he knows his Golden Ratios, he understands “peace” and “symmetry” and “delight” when he gets to see them – and tells him, “Makoto… I want you on top of me. And….inside me. That would make me feel safe.” His voice decides to drop to a whisper on the last word.

…And those eyes widen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo...I swear, the initial plan was to get them the hell somewhere (hotel, Haru's place, alley, whatever) and let them go nuts for two full chapters, but my irrational love for Haru seized control and here you are with this meandery, slightly redundant Haru POV chap b/c I guess I'm a complete tease. And, I guess, because I can. (Cue maniacal laughter?)
> 
> It is so fun to mess with the Haru/Mako tropes. I get especially ticked at the thought that I or anyone else should be forced to conform to some rigid idea of their characters. Fanfic is a playground - let's all go nuts! No one has to like it ;). And a main theme here is that being in a new, big place where you're unknown can be one of the Free!est (...) life experiences. I'm a raging introvert and will never forget finding my inner extravert on a business trip once; I'm still friends with a lovely Aussie woman I met there. ANd that should be able to go for both Haru and Makoto. So I tiptoed around this by deliberately keeping the timeline vague. Who knows how long these guys have been there? If I do, I ain't tellin ;)
> 
> I've also enjoyed sneaking in observations and thoughts that are identical from both guys' POVs. It's a little scary how you can share a brain when you've known each other since kindergarten, even if you're very different people.
> 
> Thank you so much for the lovely kudos and comments so far!!! ANd most of all thank you for reading. You all are the best <3


	3. Because I’m best when I’m in love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He pulls himself to a stop and almost can’t believe he can, Haru’s like quicksand, he could fall in forever and never reach the bottom, he never wants to find the end of Haru. He never wants to come out of Haru. How did he go this long without feeling this with Haru? How will anything compare after this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been almost too fun in every way :)
> 
> Thx again to La Gaga for unknowingly/nonconsentually letting me steal "G.U.Y." for the titles/lyrics.

_I don't need to be on top_

_To know I'm worth it_

_'Cause I'm strong enough to know the truth_

_I just want it to be hot_

_Because I'm best when I'm in love_

_And I'm in love with you_

 

Makoto blinks for a minute or two. Just…blinks.

It may be the most shocking thing anyone has ever said to him. And he’s friends with Rin. And _Nagisa_ , for god’s sake, who’s a little sadist in his twinkling- _no-he-did-NOT-just_ commentary. But no, that’s it, game over, nothing compares, not Haru’s own words from that terrible, necessary night at the fireworks, either. Haru just…stays there, above him, hovering so close like the most jaw-droppingly beautiful moon on some other planet, and he doesn’t seem to be in any rush to get an answer, which is lucky as Mako just…just blinks.

_‘Makoto… I want you on top of me. And….inside me.’_

He is a one-man solar flare as those words shoot through him again. And he’s surprised at himself at the push – it isn’t a shuffle of lurid images drawn by those words that gets him instantly hot, that makes him so hard he _knows_ Haru’s feeling him, if he wasn’t before. He’s not sure if any dirty pictures come to mind (hell, what’s wrong with him??). It’s a weird attack instead of what Haru’s request _means_ that gets him. Haru wants _him_ to take control of this singular situation between them enough that he would allow Makoto to assume such a dominant position. _Haru,_ who he hides behind without a lick of shame – still! _Haru,_ who in his fluffier, more emotional moments he believes swims not like a man, not even like a sea creature (dolphin, of course), but like some kind of nameless water spirit, who’s definitely bound for a Team Japan Olympic tracksuit. _Haru_ , who has lived alone and taken care of himself, essentially, since middle school, a development Makoto still hasn’t gotten over and that he believes isn’t diminished in the slightest by anything his family has done for him over the years.

_Haru_ , who must trust him enough to arrange this ridiculously forward evening – to try this new thing, dressing up and going out together no matter how much it confused him at first, to kiss Mako first after _years_ of missed opportunities on his part, to bring them to a love hotel, of all the last places on Earth. Who must trust that he’ll treat him with care, with respect, with this incredibly intimate, probably scary and painful thing.

_Haru_ , who after all that wants to invite Makoto inside himself. Who wants to bring him the next logical step in their knowledge of each other. Mako knows Haru needs space, needs secrets, from everyone, even him; but Haru keeps looking at him, asking him with those eyes to chip that wall to almost nothing.

_Haru_ , who wants Makoto to be his first….? (Has…Haru…?)

Who wants Makoto to be his only….?

He knows without needing to spare it the barest thought that Haru would be his only. That deepest wordless urge to _protect_ him at the club may have been totally irrational, but it had surged up from the same spring deep inside him feeding every act he has done for Haru since they were kids.

Next logical step.

*

Makoto begins to be filled with the most surprising feeling of warmth, a cousin of the heat that’s tearing him up now too but so much gentler, originating from where their chests rise and fall against each other and spreading down his long body in waves, up to his head and he can feel his face beaming in a giant smile that makes him squint. He’s relieved, the feeling is unmistakable; he’s solved Haru’s last puzzle for him, and there is no doubt he came up with the right answer. He’s proud of himself for not being a total moron about it – Haru will be too, and he can’t wait to show him, to prove that he read Haru’s clues correctly, that their telepathy was never in any question.

Haru has been smiling back at him ever since he had his private little epiphany, and with a little sigh he finally tucks his head under his chin, settling in against his chest. “Mmmm…this is nice,” he murmurs, his breath tickling Mako. “You could rent yourself out as a mattress, Makoto.”

“Uh…so. Is THAT what they’re calling it now?” He cannot believe Haru tonight. The more moments like this, the more he wonders about how much he’s been keeping in touch with Nagisa.

“Mmmm. You’re just so warm, and soft, even with all that muscle… I don’t understand.”

“Must be my gooey nougat center.”

Haru snorts and gives one of his nipples a vicious tweak, earning him a pathetic little yip followed by a swift barrel roll as Makoto grabs and flips them. He shamelessly uses his size to surround his friend bodily, leaving his hands free to go for all Haru’s worst tickling vulnerabilities – ribcage and underarms, mostly. For an elite athlete in training, it is almost pathetic how fast Haru’s reduced to a boneless, pleading jumble of limbs, gasping and trying – but failing – to squirm out of Mako’s grip on his wrists. He’s trying to dislodge Makoto by bucking up with his hips, too, and Makoto KNOWS that’s anything but innocent. He decides Haru has shouldered all the work tonight for too long. He stills.

“Haru.” Just a whisper, the barest statement of intent.

Haru instantly stills too and shines his eyes up at him fully. Like he knew without a doubt this was where they would ultimately end up. Makoto gently leans in and he’s initiating their kiss this time; he thinks Haru did a much better job with his, but Makoto keeps it simple, almost thoughtless, which is very not-him. It feels fabulous, strange, soft, light and at the same time heavy, like an unseen hand is behind them, urging his head down, down, down. He moves his jaw gently against Haru’s, feeling him back and fill in reply, feeling as Haru lets him take the lead, and despite his newfound and wonderful break from thinking he’s struck by how much this reminds him of their walks home along the shore, him rattling along about his day and Amakata-sensei’s latest and what he heard last from Rin and Haru saying little but answering all the same. They just are using a different kind of communication, in a different place different time, and again he’s struck that Haru has been using his eyes and lips like this with him _all along,_ right before him, and he just didn’t see it.

He wonders….he knows….he’s been doing the same.

He releases Haru’s wrists with the vague and delicious certainty it won’t be the last time they’re in that particular configuration… but for now he must indulge in pushing his hands into Haru’s hair, he’s waited so long to do this properly… And it’s even softer than it looks. How the hell can that be?? He just loses himself for a few long moments, trying and failing to compare it to something, coming up only with the realization it may be the softest thing he’s ever had in his hands. Haru releases something that almost sounds like a coo, eyes flickering shut in obvious pleasure like he’s getting a scalp massage at the best salon in town.

“Hey,” he whispers down, “I forgot to tell you how much I like the new haircut. Bet it’s been getting you lots of attention.” He playfully messes up Haru’s fringe, turning it into a crazy black haystack teetering over his squinting eyes, then sweeping his big clumsy hands over Haru’s delicate skull to feel where the cut fades out, seating his thumbs behind his ears and locking his fingers around the fine down of his close shave.

“Ah. And TELL me, Caveman, how would that make you FEEL?” Deadpan.

Mako stares. “What did you call me? ‘Caveman’?”

Vaguest quirk of his lips. “Well aren’t we supposed to come up with stupid pet names for each other now? That’s what I hear so I’m trying my best, Makoto. Work with me.” He’s wormed hands down between them as he makes fun of Makoto and has sneakily popped the remaining buttons on the dress shirt, and is now yanking it out from his jeans. So much for “surrendering the driver’s seat”.

“Yeah, yeah, I can do pet names, Mister, uh….Mister Pruny-Dick–” uh-oh, Makoto knows he’s gone over the line as he bites his lower lip and Haru retaliates, reaching up to yank on his overgrown haircut so hard his eyes fly open and he’s diving forward with his mouth, attacking Haru fiercely as he does some hairpulling of his own, bending his head straight back into the pillow and sucking at his neck, Adam’s apple, the hollow between his collarbones. Haru’s immediate moans dance against his working lips and spur him on further, nosing slowly and deliberately down, burying his face in the neck of Haru’s wonderful sweater. His skin tastes so good, so fucking _good,_ mysterious, the overriding impression just being “clean”. Haru tastes so clean, he doesn’t even taste like shampoo or bath gel, Makoto can’t find a trace of the musk he would think was unavoidable for any guy over the age of 10. Was it all the baths, all the swimming, did they obliterate any natural odor…or was this just Haru? He noses around Haru’s upper chest, unapologetically licking him like a damn dog, his brain totally shorted-out. And Haru works his slender fingers restlessly and thoroughly over his entire scalp, sending tiny streamers of pricking energy rushing down his neck and shoulders and lats and lower, and he is just into the _beyond._

After two or five or fifty minutes of this – he’s not sure – Haru’s got a finger under his chin and tipping up so gently. He’s absolutely delighted at the obvious horny state he’s driving his Haru into; he’s never seen him this flushed, eyes this dark or wide, crowned by the wild thatch of hair… He did this. _He_ did.

“Okay. Naked-time. We are officially way too dressed,” he tells Makoto with the trademark Haru all-business tone and Mako can’t help it, he collapses into weak giggles lying on Haru’s thoroughly-licked chest and shaking helplessly. Haru is undeterred. His dress shirt somehow is divested from his upper-body as he lays there though he guesses he did have to lift his arms at some point to help. He may have done backstroke arms. He can’t remember for sure.

Haru’s waiting for no man. He’s already shoved Makoto up enough to start unhitching his wide leather belt when he manages to reach down and grab Haru’s hands.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa…” He’s shaky and still getting his breath as he pushes himself up to straddle Haru. Oh, the sight of him, the _sight_ of him stretched beneath him, Makoto is familiar-enough with porn and Haru is fully-clothed for god’s sake (sorta) but this sight below him is pure Makoto porn. He knows this and he doesn’t hurry his eyes away. For his part Haru isn’t in any hurry to pull his hands away from Makoto’s belt and it makes him feel like some improbably desired thing. “Wasn’t I supposed to take control of this…this thing you put together? Can’t a guy undress himself around here?” All bluster.

Haru immediately withdraws his hands behind his head, an _unmistakable_ smirk going on now. Makoto flails for a second in an all-too familiar feeling. “No! No, if you would rather, please go ahead Haru…”

“You were doing fine, Makoto. Go ahead. Better than fine actually.”

Well, if there’s anything Makoto has always understood perfectly, it’s having people give him a task to do. He isn’t embarrassed, he just knows this about himself. There is no shame in getting a job done. He teases his big fingers into the workings of his belt that Haru hadn’t got to yet, undoing it with a metallic “tink”. He moves on without pause to his fly, aware with warm satisfaction that Haru is doing an amazing thing. He has a private show going on above him, Makoto scoffs internally – total amateurville, but the best he can do. But despite the obvious Greek god situated shirtless above him, pecs and biceps flexed (in concentration on his fly but who’s keeping score?), abs showing all six in their pack (ah the wonders of this crouch he was in), _taking off his jeans,_ Haru isn’t staring at his body. He’s gazing up at Makoto’s face, eyes homed-in, hands gently resting on Mako’s muscular thighs where they hug his body. It’s like Makoto’s face is the last scene of a really great movie and he can’t wait to find out how it’s going to end.

Makoto can’t believe when his fly is suddenly around and over the frankly shocking bulge in his black boxers and it’s time to move this thing into a whole other place. Has Haru ever seen him naked? He stalls out for a second, showers and baths as kids and camping trips and changing in cramped quarters all folding together in an instantaneous jumble, and wonders why something so dumb should matter at all, why would someone as unaffected by… _anything,_ really, as Haru, care what his dick looked like? But he can’t help caring, this last piece of himself that he’s sure they haven’t shared with each other deliberately, and he’s seized with a strange hope that it’ll be okay to Haru. That, and it’ll do its damn job.

Mako swallows and slides off Haru to finish-up his half-assed strip-job, standing beside the bed and distractedly moving to push the jeans off his hips. Haru rolls his eyes and _tsks_ so hard Rin would be proud, and scoots to sit before him on the edge of the bed. He knocks Makoto’s hands away and looks up, scornful-Haru softening into something he thinks is new, deeply-amused-and-turned-on-Haru. Oh, but he loves it.

“Change of plan,” Haru smiles, ever-so-slowly peeling the jeans from his hips like he’s unwrapping the last gift under the Christmas tree, pushing them softly to the floor and nudging him to step out of them. He leans down and makes Mako lift each foot like a horse getting shoed so he can get rid of his socks, too (even as he’s tempted to tell Haru not to bother). Then he’s trailing his fingertips deliberately up both ankles, calves, backs of his knees, hamstrings. It’s pleasantly warm in the room but his touch is leaving waves of goosebumps in its wake. He just stands obediently, hands hanging stupidly at his sides, heart racing, watching Haru’s total concentration on his task. And those fingertips have crept up, sneaking under the hem of his boxers, whispering up each upper-thigh and slowly, slowly shifting up each of his glutes, oh so gently caressing his ass as he can’t help releasing a groan.

“Ahhh, Haru…are you serious?” He really can’t help it.

Haru peeks up at him. He notices just how messy his eyeliner has got in all they’ve got up to so far, sorta melting into soft shadows, and thinks it makes Haru look dangerous, like he’s some creature he’s finding in a cave and getting intimate with. Weird. And deeply hot.

“What a stupid question. I refuse to answer your stupid question, Makoto.” And Haru is smiling again no matter how serious he claims himself to be, as he fists the nylon inside the seat of Mako’s boxers and firmly pulls them to the floor. Makoto doesn’t need the cue this time to kick them aside.

Haru just….just looks at him for a bit. He has what Makoto thinks of as his “artist-face” on, calm, interested, eyes trailing over every detail. He reaches out and then his hands begin to do what his eyes just finished. It isn’t a hand-job by any definition of the term. Makoto gasps almost silently with each intake of breath, resting his hands gently on Haru’s shoulders, just watching as Haru’s fingertips and palms deliberately and gracefully and oh so slowly trace the line descending down and move around his dark patch of hair, finding the base, circling, spiraling up and around, smoothing the head from what seems like every direction. He leans forward and, holding his erection almost lovingly between his open palms like it’s a beloved thing, gives the head the smallest kiss, letting his lips sort of melt over until he’s softly sucking in a faint rhythm, maybe to the beat of Mako’s gasps above him that instantly devolve into moans and more.

“Ohhh, oh Haru, _god,_ Haru, Haru…”

He releases him and suddenly – like he’s a little genie Makoto didn’t realize he was calling – he’s standing in front of him, the magical sweater nowhere to be found. The skin of his neck and shoulders is just _livid_ (to match his cheeks) and he’s so pale everywhere else, something that comes to life at night and steals souls, or maybe Makoto’s really starting to slip over the edge into delirium. He would like to see more. He shouldn’t be the only dork naked in this damn love hotel room.

He has Haru’s skinny-jeans down before he even knows what he was just doing, and figures he must have peeled Haru like a banana given how those things were painted on him. He finds Haru’s delicate stepping-out once they’re on the floor almost wickedly-erotic, and reaches up enthusiastically to grab what he’s guessing will be a pair of jammers –

“Oh.”

Haru has gone commando tonight, standing utterly nude before him, and as hectically hard as Makoto. The picture of him as a wild, magical, dangerous thing is complete. But he also just gazes shyly up at Makoto, and the image of _his_ Haru layers over this new and startling figure, and his heart almost can’t stand it.

He is revisited by Haru’s crazy command like it’s a summons. On top. Inside. Because…because –

This will make Haru feel safe.

He can’t imagine the beautiful man who has basically stepped out of some freaking legend or fairy tale – how, how does he want _Makoto? –_ he can’t believe this man would need to be protected, would ever be weak and need to rely on him. But he also knows Haru does. He needs him, deeply; as much as Makoto needs him back. And as Mako reaches over and pulls an overstuffed pillow from the bed on a sudden impulse, he knows there is basically nothing he wouldn’t do to ensure Haru’s safety. To take care of him.

He grabs Haru’s hand and pulls them over to a chest of drawers against the wall, a dim desk lamp casting a glow over their skin, their bodies reflected in a large mirror above them. Makoto puts the pillow on top lengthwise, facing the mirror, flushing at the scene he’s setting. He laughs at the irony as he notices a little caddy under the lamp, where a normal hotel would put out the coffee and tea, helpfully stocked with single-use packets of what can only be lube and various colorful condom packets. So fate agrees with him that this must be the place.

“Do – do you trust me, Haru?”

Haru doesn’t even bother with an eye roll. He just turns to the stage Makoto’s created and bends over, settling into the pillow and resting his head on his arms. And … oh, but Haru from here, Makoto just gapes down at the elegant legs, one cocked out casually, at his almost exuberantly-pert ass that he’s seen for forever ready to pounce from the starting block, but this is so soft, so vulnerable. At the definite, almost feminine curve of his waist and the understated lines of his back muscles…he’s no backstroker but there is no doubt that this is an athlete who uses this body as his instrument. At the rapid rise and fall of his shoulderblades as he breathes his excitement. His fear?

Makoto steps up behind and leans over Haru. He knows how much Haru loved just lying on him, the feel of being sealed together, and he repeats the sensation in reverse, patiently finding where he fits into Haru and unsurprised when they slot together perfectly this way too. He sneaks his hands around Haru’s chest and rests his chin on top of Haru’s head, to consider them in the mirror. Seeing them like this is strangely comforting – it’s perfect confirmation, this is Haru and Makoto, without a doubt. It’s like seeing an unfamiliar couple together, a couple so obviously in love, and Makoto is hypnotized. It looks like Haru is, too.

He pulls a hand free and turns Haru’s head to the side to face him, kissing him almost reverently, like he would kiss something he doesn’t fully understand. Despite his obvious nerves Haru seems boneless, leaning back to him completely and pulling his neck down insistently. Their kisses seem to be getting exponentially better, Makoto thinks, tentatively sliding his tongue into Haru’s mouth and feeling like he’s losing where his face ends and Haru’s starts. They’re gently rocking against the bureau before he realizes it, his cock pressing into Haru’s deep crevice, press, release, his stomach bottoming-out with each stroke and both making _“mmph”_ sounds into each other’s mouth. Building, fingers biting his scalp, and he breaks their kiss and on sudden inspiration pulls his mouth around to the back of Haru’s ridiculously swanny neck, mouthing sloppy kisses down the knobby vertebrae between the ropes of firm muscle hiding there, down to his tailbone. He kisses it and feels Haru twisted around above him to see.

He goes down further to finish what he started and suddenly can’t do it. It’s too much, too close, the thought of his lips up in Haru’s …. Too much, and he awkwardly reaches up to paw through the lube-caddy instead. He grabs one saying something about “shared excitement” and thinks, yes, accurate. He rips it open and rubs about half into his fingers. He looks back down.

Haru is stretched out, totally unconcerned (or so it seems), head turned to the side and resting back on his arms, the pace of his breaths noticeably calmer. He does that weird trick where he cocks an eye back at Makoto, and this one says “Whenever you’re ready.” Or that’s what Mako reads, anyway. It’s a little challenging with his cock seemingly doing a hostile takeover of all his conscious thought.

“Hmm, Haru…I think this may feel weird, or it may hurt you, and if it does you have to tell me to stop right away, okay?” he says as he bites his lip, almost dreading the thought of inflicting pain on the soft body beneath him (he knows Haru is harder than he looks; he can’t stop the thought of him as soft). He knows he can’t just barge inside, that he could seriously hurt Haru, especially since he is big, has been big from an embarrassingly early age. He knows he has to ease Haru open and has seen it done in video and manga form (for such a “repressed” place it sure is easy to learn about gay sex in Japan). But faced with Haru’s most intimate place, knowing what is to come, he gapes again. Then Haru shifts his weight quietly to the other leg, reminding him of the start of their night, of seeing his completely shameless ass posed _just like that_ as he put on eyeliner in his bathroom mirror, and he moves forward, gently feeling one slick finger inside.

Haru makes a tiny noise but seems okay and he continues, realizing instinctively what his purpose is inside. He’s immediately surprised by how _big_ it is in there, hot and smooth and sheathed in powerful muscle he tickles gently and smooths with the two fingers he now is diligently working in Haru. Haru shudders at something and gives him that side-eye his brain can’t handle again. Moved by a sudden realization, he reaches and moves a hand around Haru’s cock, so tentative, smoothing down in long pulls with each sweep his fingers make inside.

He watches Haru bite his bicep where it curls around his face. “Uhhh!” It sounds dragged out of him through his clenched teeth, urgent and low in tandem with a particularly confident drag of Makoto’s fist, and he can _feel_ Haru’s passage relaxing, opening so subtly in a way that fills him with a jolt of relief mixed with pride so strong he almost passes out. He figures he may as well be sure, any job is worth doing well, and travels down to almost tickle Haru’s slit with his fingertips while he pushes another finger into him and just thinks _“spread”_ as he moves.

Haru’s trembling. He arches back and does that contortionist-twist thing again to stare at him.

“Makoto. It’s time,” he manages, not looking away. Makoto swallows with a click.

“It’s time,” he agrees in a voice that’s ragged at the edges.

He’s almost shocked when Haru firmly moves first to flick through the condoms, pulling out one that shouts “Extra-Large” and holding his tongue through sheer force of will. Haru seems totally uninterested in smart-ass comments, shaking it out and rolling it down Mako’s aching length way too quickly and with suspicious skill. He’s already slicking him with the rest of the lube before Makoto hardly knows what’s going on. This time he can’t help himself.

“Taking this in school or is it an extracurricular?”

He gets a mean thrill that he can’t place when Haru’s mouth drops open at him, just for a moment. Then he’s back. “At least somebody knows what to do here, Mako- _chan.”_ And he winks.

Makoto doesn’t bother arguing. He just dives in and kisses him. He doesn’t know exactly what that just signified, what kind of history they’re building on outside their own firm foundation, and he realizes he just plain doesn’t give a shit.

They break and Mako pulls Haru’s hands from behind his neck where they’ve migrated, then turns him back to the mirror. He doesn’t bend them over this time, just snugs the pillow over the edge of the bureau and leans Haru into it, wrapping one arm around his tense chest. He puts his lips to Haru’s ear, and whispers, “Please stop me anytime, Haru-chan. I would rather die than hurt you.”

Haru is silent. Then – “Thank you, Makoto. For ….” He doesn’t finish. Makoto doesn’t mind.

He gently moves his cock to Haru’s entrance with his free hand and, feeling with all certainty that he’s flying off the starting block into space, pushes inside. He’s slow, almost contemplative, and what he’s doing suddenly strikes him as he goes. He gasps and ducks his head into Haru’s shoulder, feeling it thrum with pent energy, feeling Haru’s swallowed gasps as Mako dives deeper and deeper.

“Oh, Haru, oh, are you okay, you okay…?” He pulls himself to a stop and almost can’t believe he can, Haru’s like quicksand, he could fall in forever and never reach the bottom, he never wants to find the end of Haru. He never wants to come _out_ of Haru. How did he go this long without feeling this with Haru? How will anything compare after this?

Haru’s got a hand on his panicky-tight arm around him – the other is bracing himself on the pillow, he sees – and he squeezes Makoto’s arm in a way that reassures him instantly. Haru is okay. They can keep this going. Makoto wants to kiss him, and he does, teasing Haru to face him again with his fingers across his cheek. Haru kisses back with equal enthusiasm if only half the breath. Makoto makes eye contact with himself in the mirror as they break, seeing a tall man, coiled around a smaller man so completely they look like one organism, pale cradled by honey-toned, cool vs. warm, dark dangerous eyes marking them both as something to watch out for. It is the most erotic thing he has ever seen in his life by a country mile.

Haru is watching too, eyes flicking between them. “Mmmm, Makoto. Didn’t know…you were….so kinky,” he breathes out as Makoto begins to oh so slowly move with Haru. He’s moving _with_ Haru, not into him, because as he starts rocking, sliding down, pulling up at the very bottom of the line, pulling back to redraw the imaginary line in reverse, Haru is with him the whole way, like the ideal dance partner – ghosting forward, letting his hips go so loose they’re practically unhinged, anticipating the end of Mako’s stroke as he goes as deep as he can go and dropping his head back to Mako’s shoulder as he gasps through it and digs nails into Makoto’s arm. Swimming, Makoto knows dimly as they flow together; this uncanny hip language is pure swimming muscle memory. But he knows it’s that, plus this _thing_ they have together. He knew they had telepathy of thoughts; he knew they could understand each other’s nonverbals like they were shouts. He didn’t know their bodies would be able to speak to each other too. It feels like pure joy in his stomach, his groin, his chest, everywhere.

Haru swallows where his lips rest against Makoto’s jawline. “You…You can go faster, or deeper, if you want, Makoto. I like….that feeling.”

Makoto swallows too. He doesn’t insult Haru asking if he means it or he’s sure. If Haru says something, both things are givens.

The almost meditating glacier-slow pace morphs; Makoto moves his hand across Haru’s chest and up to grab his opposite shoulder for leverage – like his messenger bag, he realizes. Instead of floating through, he dives into each thrust on a straight line, carefully backing them up with the power in his hips and glutes and thighs. Each time he lands as deep as he can in Haru, the smaller jolts, eyes going wide; they surge forward together, the gentle waves now becoming a furious storm, leaning into Haru’s braced arm.

“Ah, god, Haru, damn, _Haru…”_

“Yea—ah—oh--!”

Makoto speeds them up, chasing the sound of Haru falling-off-the-edge-of-the-world, single-mindedly driving to shove him the rest of the way over. Then to let himself fall over too….he’s been pulling back, and back, and back, and he can’t believe that’s been working, he’s still harder than he’s ever been and thinks he’s going to be able to give Haru what he needs after all.

Haru falls onto the bureau as his knees give out, bracing on his folded arms, head hanging and hair swaying helplessly under the force of Makoto’s thrusts. Makoto curls over him, pulling him in, snaking a hand under to stroke him, waiting, waiting as the heat pounds inside him.

It is so weird to have his hand on someone else’s orgasm; weirdly intimate, as he finally returns to so gently tease the slit – and as Haru jolts forward with him everything that joins them below is suddenly about three sizes too small – and the organ in his hand gives up, jerking as Haru comes. He’s totally boneless again and Makoto moves on his instinct as he pauses briefly, then rides Haru for a few more fierce thrusts. There was never any question that he would come inside; with the condom, there’s no issue with mess, but more than that, he knows that’s where he _belongs._ He’s overwhelmed with the sensation that they’ve been climbing somewhere together, just always going up, up, and now he’s suddenly letting go and floating down, filling with carbonated water, expanding like a giant balloon.

He sees Haru’s lips moving tiredly against his arm when he realizes he’s lost his hearing.

*

Thankfully, the hearing loss is temporary (that had DEFINITELY never happened to him in an orgasm before) and he completely agrees with Haru’s suggestion to take a bath. And apparently it’s their night – Makoto doesn’t know if four-person Jacuzzis are standard in love hotels, but regardless, they’ll take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, THANK YOU for joining me in my 1st-ever smut (after a lifetime of being a card-carrying pervo). I must say, it is just plain weird how much easier it is to write than I thought it would be - like these guys wrote themselves. Maybe THAT'S why it's basically in realtime without an edit to speak of ;P
> 
> I love the idea that in Haru’s mind, in my headcanon at least, there's absolutely no point screwing around and wasting time in a “relationship” “getting to know each other”…as in his unshakeable worldview, he and Mako had been doing that for maybe even their whole lives together, just without the sex. Sex is the absolute logical next step to him. I also subscribe to a “Haru as intuitive/physical/sensual being” viewpoint (vs. the ace Haru approaches out there which I can understand) and feel sex would be in his vocabulary, however awkward at first and whatever difficulty he may have with the social aspects.
> 
> That said, it seemed important in this final chapter to switch back to Makoto and see how well Haru’s proposal goes down. Basically, Mako’s decision is simple. Haru’s attraction can’t be clearer. Mako’s too. Does he want everything they’ve always had – and sex, too? (A: DUH.)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Free! fic and I must say how TOTALLY floored I've been by the talented folks here. Wow. I mean.....wow. THank you all for the fabulous inspiration and entertainment :D
> 
> Oh!! Almost forgot to say: comments are an absolute treat, no matter what you have to say. Thanks so much for reading!


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